


The Last Prince

by wethecommon



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Jon Targaryen - Freeform, Rhaegar Lives, what if
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-28 12:49:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7640899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wethecommon/pseuds/wethecommon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rhaegar Targaryen survives after thought slain by Robert. He recovers and returns in time to defeat the Lannister army in the sack of King's Landing, but not soon enough. They have all perished. His wife, his father, his mother, his two children, all lost to him. All he has left is the little babe swaddled in blankets with curls as dark as the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Lyanna's name was only a whisper on his lips as the dark enveloped the prince. But Robert cannot accepted that he is dead. He wishes to lay more blows, to draw so much blood that it will flow like a river, that it will drip into the sea, turning all waters the crimson red of Rhaegar's blood. He wishes to wash his hands with it, bathe in it, drink from it, he wants

_more_

_more_

_more_

He wants the the blood of the man who had stolen his little winter rose. But he is torn from the man's corpse before he can mutilate it. 

"It is over, m'lord," One of his men breathes into his ear, "He is dead."

Robert fights as hard as he can, but his men only pull him further away.

"No!" He rages against their arms, "I will rip his body apart! I will return him to his father limb by limb!"

He wants to make due on his promises, wants to quench his all-consuming blood thirst. But his men do not listen and he can only stare at Rhaegar's body that lay in a pool of red,

 

red as rubies,

 

red as Lyanna's lips,

 

red as his rage. 

* * *

 

When Rhaegar opens his eyes, he sees red. It moves in stringy tresses, spread out across a dress of the same color. He hears only a soft humming emitting from the red figure, its back turned to him. He longs to cry out, but he does not know if his words will work.

His memories come to him in bits and pieces. Leaving Lyanna, fighting Robert, feeling the cold hiss of Robert's hammer as it punctures his chest. Then only darkness. Now, he is gasping for breaths as he takes in his surroundings. He lies atop a feather-bed in a small room where there is the red-haired lady standing in front of a fire. His hand ghosts over the wound where the mark of the deathly blow should be, but he feels only cold. 

"My prince," The Lady addresses, having not even turned around, "You are awake. "

"Who are you?" He croaks, his voice hoarse. 

She turns then, her face porcelain as she stares at him with steely eyes.

"I am the one has restored your life, your grace," She tells him before swishing her way to the side of his bed, "And I am the one who will send you to King's Landing to defend your throne. "

"Why?" His heart beats erratically as he tries to decipher this woman's true identity. 

She smiles then, but it is tight against her lips. It is more a grimace if anything.

"I do as the Lord of Light commands."

The words leave him more perplexed than before.

* * *

He musters up all the men he can. They tell him of the Lannisters', of how they have turned against the Royal Crown and have allied themselves with Robert's Rebellion. He tells them all is not lost, that as he has come back from the dead, that their victory shall do the same. This seems to inspire hope in their souls and they ride with him as he leads them towards his great city, only to see it has already fallen to chaos. 

Desperation fills him as he fights. He must win, must protect the lives of his children, his wives, his brother and his mother along with the unborn babe within her womb. He will save his family. He will kill every last Lannister and Baratheon man until his family is safe in his arms.

His army is winning, he knows it. His men are fighting just as ferociously as he and they have the advantage of surprise, but there is already too much damage they cannot undo. As he forces his way into the Red Keep, this becomes very clear. The Prince races his way to where he knows his wife must be, to where his children must be. He wishes to call out their names, to hold them and beg their forgiveness for bringing this upon them. But he throws open a door that only gives him pure torment.

He stabs Gregor Clegane a thousand times, but it is not enough. He wants

_more_

_more_

_more_

But he has only the corpses of his beloved. He holds them all in his arms, wishing desperately they could hold him back.  Their blood spills upon him, mixing with the other men's, mixing with his own, and he weeps freely. The war is won, but he has lost.

* * *

 

The room smells of blood as he takes in the sight. His strangled cry echoes through the room as he races to his second wife. He goes to her side, kneeling before her. 

"My love," He whispers and she only reaches a shaky hand up to his face, caressing his cheek bone with her thumb. He takes her hand and presses a kiss to it. 

"My love," He repeats once more, "You must stay with me." 

She is all he has, all he wants now more than anything. _Please_ , he prays to the gods, _take me instead._  But he is a fool to think the gods will listen. 

"I cannot," She tells him and her face resembles that of terrified child, "You must take care of him, Rhaegar, you must." Her voice is desperate now as she pleads.

He runs a hand through her damp hair in an attempt to comfort her.

"Who, sweetling, who must I take care of?" He whispers. 

It is Ned who walks to him now, a swaddle of blankets in his arms that he solemnly passes to Rhaegar. He stares down at the quiet baby, so quiet he would think dead if not for the bright grey eyes staring into his own indigo ones. The babe looks just like her, just like his Lyanna who lays dying on the bed. He looks to her now, her smile soft as she looks upon her family. 

"He is Jon Targaryen," She tells him, "Prince of the seven kingdoms." 

Her breathing is ragged as she reaches for him and he quickly obliges, putting his hand in hers. She squeezes it tightly as she stares deep into eyes. 

"You must care for him, my love, never let anyone hurt him," She demands. 

"I swear it," He says, squeezing her hand with the same gentle strength. 

She relaxes then, succumbing to the pain, and he desperately wishes to keep her with him. He places kissed to her brow, to her cheeks, to her lips until her skin grows cold and he is left with another corpse to bury. The pain in his heart is as vast as the unforgiving sea. He was greedy, allowing two loves into his life, calling two women wife. And he lost them both. He wants blood. He wants 

_more_

_more_

_more_

But it is his own blood he calls for. He brought this upon both his wives, upon his children, upon his family. He is nothing now.

The babe makes a loud cry and Rhaeger looks back down at the bundle in his arms, seemingly have forgotten the infant if only for a moment. He is wrong, so very wrong, for Lyanna lives on through her son, his son. The love that fills his heart at the sight of his grey-eyed babe is enough to wash away all the pain. He rocks the child, shushing his cries as he presses kisses to his head. He has sworn to Lyanna and he shall keep his oath until his final day. 

"Jon," He whispers, his eyes fresh with tears, "My son."

He is not nothing. He is Rhaegar Targaryen, father to Jon Targaryen and that is all that matters in the world. It is all he cares about.


	2. Boyhood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly wrote that first chapter on a whim and didn't expect your guys awesome feedback. Thank you so much! Dunno if I'll be able to make the second chapter as good, but I'll try my best

He is tired. Tired of war. Tired of death. Tired of the pain that comes after. He wants none of it, but he is king and the people want their revenge.

Robert Baratheon is already dead, slain in battle. But there are more people to be found at fault for his war. 

He feels no remorse taking Tywin's head. As he watches the head roll and the body slack, visions of his family flash before him. Wife. Children. All forever lost because of this man's orders. He feels no remorse. 

The Kingslayer's fate is the one decided next. He could do the same to him that he did to the man's father, he _should_ do the same. The people yearn for it, but Rhaegar knew of his father's illness. Knew that his father would have burned the whole city to ash if the Kingslayer had not sliced his throat. So he offers a small act of mercy. Jaime Lannister is sentenced to the wall.

The people call for it. They shout for it, their voices ringing high into the air. It fills Rhaegar's ears until it is the only thing echoing through his brain. He knows he should, that his other allies would see it as a fit punishment. But as he looks upon Eddard Stark's face, the one that mirrors his own beloved wife's, his own beloved child's, he knows he cannot. Lord Stark has the blood of Lyanna. The blood of a wolf. The blood that    _dripped_ _dripped_ _dripped_ onto the sheets of his wife's deathbed. Enough wolf's blood has been shed and Rhaegar cannot bear to see anymore.

He passes the sentence, the one that causes the people to cry out in disappointment. Eddard Stark will bend the knee and will offer his full support of the rightful King and to ensure this support, the King will take the firstborn of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Stark as his ward. The people want blood, but he is the King. He is law. 

When the crown becomes too heavy upon his head and the visions too consuming for his thoughts to bear, he sneaks away to the little prince's room. There, the babe sleeps soundly, untroubled by the tainted world. Rhaegar is a fool for wishing he could always keep him that way.

He takes his son into his arms and coos him when he awakes and begins to cry. He knows it is selfish of him to awake his child from his peaceful slumber, but he cannot help it. This is the only time he can spare for his son and he knows Lyanna would resent him so for it.

 _I am doing all I can_ , he wishes to tell his wife, but she is not here to listen.

He must make do with the time he does have with his babe and so he begins to sing. He sings a tale of a she-wolf and a dragon. Of the winter's cold met by the summer breeze. He sings a song of ice and fire.

* * *

 Jon does not like songs and books as Rhaegar does. He tries to interest his son. Interest him in all the wonders the library at the Red Keep has to hold, but the boy keeps drifting off as he attempts to read the hundreds of different passages. Rhaegar ends up having to carry his son off to bed most nights. He does like when his father sings, however. For he stares attentively when the King pulls out his Lyre and listens as the sweet melodies brighten the room. But he would never sing himself, fearful of his Uncle's japes and crude laughter. 

He spends more time with the king's ward than he does with his own Aunt who is of his age, much to Rhaegar's displeasure. Ever since they could wield wooden swords, the prince and the ward would be out in training yard, envisioning themselves as knights. 

His eyes are grey whereas Rhaegar's are indigo

His hair is arrayed in tight black curls whereas Rhaegar's is long and silver

He is a wolf whereas Rhaegar is a dragon

He is

_Lyanna,_

_Lyanna,_

_Lyanna,_

_All Lyanna_

And on days when the visions are too haunting, the tears   _drip   drip   drip_   too easily, he can barely look upon his son. And he hates himself for it. _Lyanna_ would hate him for it. But Lyanna is nothing more than a memory now. Just another vision that clouds his mind and terrorizes his dreams.

* * *

Ever since he learns what a mother is, Jon's questions never abate.  _Do I have one?_

_Where is she?_

_Is she away like Robb's mother?_

_Will she write to me like his does?_

"No, my little wolf, she is gone," The King will say

                                                                            _Gone where?_

"Gone where my mother has gone. They have all left this world and have journeyed on to another."

                                                                                                                                                        _Will they ever come back?_

"No, they cannot. Once they have left, they can never come back."

But he had. He had been dead and he now he is alive. There are times when Rhaegar longs to seek out the red-haired woman, to beg of her to restore the lives of his loves lost as she had restored him. But she had disappeared, only reappearing in his dreams as the dragons do. 

Jon weeps the day his father tells him this. He wants a mother like the one Uncle Viserys speaks of. The one his father cries for. The one Robb receives such loving letters from. But his mother is gone and he yearns to go after her. He tells his father of his, of his plans to follow his mother. And it causes his father to grip his shoulders so tight he believes they will shrink. 

"You cannot go, my little wolf. If you go you will leave me, you will leave Daenerys, you will leave Robb. Do you wish to leave and never come home?" His words are swift, frantic, and desperate. 

And they cause the little wolf to rapidly shake his head as tears    _drip   drip   drip_.

"I never want to leave you, father," He whispers as he allows himself to be swallowed into Rhaegar's embrace. 

"You will never have to."

_You must care for him, my love, never let anyone hurt him_

_I am keeping my oath, Lyanna, I always will_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how many chapters this is gonna be and I know this is labeled as a Jon and Sansa fic, which it is, despite her not appearing in the first two chapters. I wanted to establish the father and son relationship between Rhaegar and Jon first but I promise Sansa is going to be in the next chapter.


	3. Robb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to take a break from all the Rhaegar angst so here's a Robb-centered chapter! What's a better way to introduce the Starks than through Robb?  
> Also, thank you so much for your kind feedback, I absolutely love hearing your guys thoughts and am really glad you like it. Thank you!!

It is an odd thing for Robb to grow up in the sunny airs of South when his heart pounds against his ribcage screaming _North_

_North_

_North_.

He tries to picture it, as the sun beats down hard on his back and sweat pools along his hairline. He tries to picture the snow, how it would flurry from the sky and collect on the ground, altering it until it is an entirely unrecognizable landscape of white  _. . . Mountains high of snow, forcing us to remain indoors until it melts_ , his mother writes.

It is difficult to try and picture when all he has known is bright blue skies and the salty kiss of the sea. 

Jon is like a brother to him, they grew up together, spar together, laugh together. They are brothers in everything but blood. But he has two brothers of his own. _Bran and Rickon, the littlest of the Starks, but strong and brave all the same,_ his mother writes. He imagines what it would be like to spar with them, but it is as hard to picture as the mountains of snow.

_I do not even know what they look like, my own brothers . . ._

He is to be a Warden of the North, but all he is of now is a Ward of the South

* * *

 

Robb's name day comes and passes. The King holds for him a small feast and presents him a newly-forged shield with a direwolf adorning the front. Robb is very vocal in his gratitude, but the King only waves his hand, as though it is of little value. Despite the King's kindness and the young Prince's companionship, Robb still feels the beating in his heart, the blood pulsing in his veins, all reminding him he doesn't belong.

In the night, he feels the wind whistling through his ear. It speaks to him through rushed whispers, 

_North_

_North_

_North_

But his feet remain planted in the southron soil, heart forever yearning to feel the chills of the North rattling through his bones. 

He receives letters from his family on his name day, wishing him the best. His mother does not hold back on her assurances that she's certain he's grown into as honorable a man as his father. She wishes him much love, expressing so in the length of a page before signing off. His father only writes of how the North fares with forebodings of how the long Summer is fading and Winter is finally coming.

Sansa writes to him as well. His oldest sister, who his mother writes is everything a lady should be. She asks him of the South. What it is like, how the King is, but most especially how the _Prince_ is. He cannot help but laugh. If only Jon knew how his little sister dreamt of ruling at his side. It would make him pink in the ears and stuttering through his words.

 

It is all too much, all the writings of a family he has never known. He reads each over and over until the words seem to float off the page, swirling around him, tightening him in their chains until he feels as though his breath has forsaken him.     _Mother   Father   Sansa   Arya   Bran   Rickon_

What a family they must be.

                                    What a home he could have known.

                                                                                       What a life it could have been.

                                                                                                                                Such loneliness that burrows a hole into his heart instead. 

* * *

 

"I am to be six and ten soon," Jon speaks, his forehead glistening from their earlier excursions in the training yard. 

"Aye, that you are," Robb responds. 

"My father wants a large celebration, says its what's expected," Jon continues, "We're to hold a tourney."

Robb laughs. How Jon will love having a tourney held in his name. All the people, all the guests, all arriving in King's Landing to celebrate their beloved prince.

"Only the best for the Crowned Prince of the Seven Kingdoms," He mocks.

Jon throws a punch which Robb evades. 

"I've asked my father to invite your family," Jon says and Robb has lost all the air in his lungs. 

_My family,_

_My family,_

_I am to meet my family_

* * *

They come upon horseback, riding fast and strong as the sun falls behind them, setting off an inky pink through the sky. He awaits them with shaky shoulders and sweaty palms. 

It is his father who greets him first, clapping him on the shoulder before taking him into his arms. They are of the same height, the same build, he is Northern just as his father and it is enough to send a ripple of warmth through his body. 

He hears the soft echo reverberating against his ear drums

_North_

_North_

_North_

And for the first time, he welcomes the steady tune.

His mother finds him next, pulling his head down so she may kiss it. "My boy, you are everything I have prayed you would be," She whispers as pink begins to bloom in the swell of his cheeks, matching the backdrop of the horizon. 

"You must be Sansa," He states, turning to lovely, red-haired lady beside his mother.

She gives him a gentle nod, an unsure smile playing at her lips. He pulls her in for a short hug, her body stiff in his arms. _Quite the little lady, my little sister is._ But her smile is more endearing when he pulls away.

There is a short, little girl beside Sansa with dark hair and eyes that hold a strange resemblance to Jon. She stares up at Robb with the most peculiar expression. _Ayra._

"You're my brother aren't you?" She asks.

Robb barks out a laugh. "That I am, little sister, that I am," he says before taking her into his embrace.

The two boys greet him with enthusiasm. The taller one, Bran, looks at him in awe, as though he is a knight in shiny armor from one of those silly tales. The littler one, Rickon, has shaggy hair that Robb finds himself ruffling his hand through. 

"My little brothers," He states and they grin up at him, their cheeks dimpling as his do. 

_My Family,_

_My Family,_

_I am with my family_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of really hate this chapter, but I can't put it off any longer. Super sorry about this super sucky chapter. Also sorry Sansa is such a small part in this.


	4. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you so much for all your kind comments! I realize I have taken a long break from this work, but once school came around things got a little hectic. Anyway, I was thinking I should return to the things that make me happy so here I am! I hope you enjoy this chapter, I was super excited to write from Sansa's point of view

She hides within plain sight, watching as he exerts himself in the training yard, his sweat glistening as it trickles down his bare chest. The thrill of it entices her, watching him although he remains unawares. That is until he turns, catching the glint of her red hair shining through the bush, having reflected the tiniest ray from the unforgiving sun, and his eyes go wide.

She runs as far as her humiliation can carry her. Her heart thunders in her chest and she must remind herself to

                                                                                                                                                                               _breathe_

_breathe_

_breathe_

But oh, how wretched she feels—No better than a foolish child. But she knows she is better than such a thing. She is dignified and refined. No longer is she the giggling bother from her youth, but she has since grown into a proper lady. _All that a lady should be,_ her mother has told her time and time again. 

And yet, Jon makes her forsake all past knowledge of propriety. Because he is so very strong, and so very handsome, and so very kind. And he offers his arm to her as he leads her to dine, and he looks upon her with his gentle eyes of sincerity, and he speaks to her in a voice of soft understanding. 

Because he is everything she will ever want, and everything she shall never be able to have

* * *

 

Arya likes to tease Sansa. She will call Sansa cruel names out of ridicule and torment because she has discovered Sansa's admiration of the Prince and shall never allow her to forget it. And it makes Sansa feel all sorts of dreadful.

Even more so because Arya has found friendship within the Prince in a way Sansa has failed to do. He dotes upon Arya as though she is the brightest star hung in the dark, night sky and devotes all his time to the little lady, time he has never bothered to expend upon Sansa.

She cannot fight the sting of jealousy that coils its was through her gut and claws up through her throat, making her forget that she must

 

_breathe_

_breathe_

_breathe_

 

All she has to confide in is her friend who suffered the journey from the North as well. Although Sansa is gracious towards her companionship, Jeyne too feels for the Prince. All she wishes to do is fantasize, but Sansa cannot fantasize anymore. It is only a hollowing reminder of all reality cannot be. And it tears through her heart, emptying her hope, telling her of all the joy that could have blessed upon her if he only felt for her in return. 

_How she longs to have his heart in her hands_

_How she promises to keep it safe and honor it wholly_

_How little he cares for her own_

* * *

 

The tourney has welcomed in a great many crowds. Many houses have come to drink away the nights and spurge upon all the entertainments the days have to offer. For this day, the jousting lists have whittled down to two lonely competitors—the Prince, himself, along with Ser Loras Tyrell. Sansa sits, situated prettily, beside her eldest brother and youngest sister as the event begins. 

Sansa has always given little cares for such gruesome displays of strength. She much prefers the pleasant dancing that resides afterwards. But for now, she will endure the distressing anticipation that settles in her bones for fear of witnessing her Prince in any harm. Her knuckles grow white as she clenches onto the hangings of her dress, watching as the riders mount their horses. Her deafening heart thuds through her ears, preventing all other noises to crawl their way in and infect her focus.

She cannot dare watch her Prince be injured.

She cannot dare turn away. 

As the horses gallop towards one another and the sound of javelin clashing against metal reverberates through the stands, it is not her prince who lays writing upon the dirt, waiting for the medic to come and fetch his battered body. No, her Prince remains tall upon his horse, victorious. She claps loudly and claps proudly for such a feat. How gallant the prince is, how striking he looks as he dislodges his helmet from atop his head, allowing the sun to shine upon his glistening sweat. 

She is reminded of the time she was caught peeping, her embarrassment seizing her happiness, and so she must turn away—if only for a moment. When she returns her gaze to the battlefield, he now has a rose tucked within in his hands. One in which he intends to bequeath upon a lady of his choosing. His horse carries him towards the place upon the stands in which the Starks are seated, but Sansa does not dare to let her hope heart she will be of choice.

_Surely, he intends to bestow it upon Arya._

Yet, his horse trots him past the little lady and is pulls to a halt before the elder sister. He extends the red-petaled flower to the lady who's hair mimics the very shade. Sansa has little success in begging her heart to steady as she accepts the blessing, glee racing through her veins. He smiles then, his lips at ease and eyes alight before tugging on the reigns once more and trotting away. She must tell her lungs to 

_Breathe_

_Breathe_

_Breathe_

But no frivolous exercise can deter her jubilant excitements. She is soaring far above the clouds, as the dragons had once done, and no taunting from Arya nor remembrance of embarrassments past may endeavor to tug her back down.

* * *

 

Sansa regrets sipping from the wine Jeyne had snatched as the giggles become hysterical and her limbs, uncontrollable as she dances through the procession of attendees, her rose tucked behind her ear. Never before has her heart been so light, so very full of all things cheerful and bright.

She has danced with a number of suitors, all ranging from light on their feet to callous-handed. Yet, not once has she managed to complain. She's enjoyed each dance with a soft smile and guiding foot step.

Still she waits

wondering if he will present himself to her

or if the rose simple did not hold as much meaning as she had hoped.

Eventually, he is cutting through the crowd, offering his hand to hers in question. She is not slow to accept and she pulls him to the center of the floor, guiding him through the steps. He is not the easiest partner to have as his steps are ill-timed and he has trouble finding the correct place to rest his hands, but Sansa does not care for such things. For when he looks at her, his eyes melting into hers and his smile spreads across his face like a wave crashing over the shore, she realizes she has never been as happy as in this moment 

and that perhaps

If only just perhaps

_he will cherish her heart as well_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been putting off doing a Jon chapter because I'm a dummy. He was originally going to the main character who I followed throughout the story, but this story has a mind of its own. I'm hoping to get a Jon chapter in soon though, if y'all are looking forward to it. I'm also itching to get another Robb chapter in. And a Daenerys one. And maybe a Rheagar one. Basically, I'm unsure how long this story is going to be


	5. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel underserving of your incredibly kind comments! thank you so much! I've finally gotten to the chapter that I had originally set out writing this story for so I hope you guys enjoy it!

Jon does not feel as a prince should. He knows they call him Jon Targaryen, Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, but he also knows of the name they whisper when they believe him far from their echoes. They call him _The Bastard Prince_. Viserys had once called him such, when Jon was so young as to not even understand the manner of the jape, but understood it to be of cruel nature when his father had nearly sliced his uncle's head from its perch upon his neck for having simply uttered the phrase. 

He is of Targaryen blood, _the blood of a dragon_

He is of Stark blood, _the blood of a wolf_

Dany likes to call him _The Dragon Wolf_ , when she feels particularly light in humor, and his father does not seem to mind this title as much. For he laughs as Dany does, and Jon feels the same singe of humiliation his uncle's japes burn. 

In truth, Jon feels neither the fire of a dragon nor the ice of a wolf coursing through his veins. He feels no more than a farce, as though a mistake has been made. Perhaps he had been a peasant child merely confused as a royal prince. Or perhaps those are his uncle's words finding a way to _slither and slunk_  into his thoughts. Still, he fears that when the day comes for the crown to be placed upon his head, it will _slip and shatter_  and his uncle will be there to provide the laughter. 

He wonders if his father fears the same, for Jon can see the fog that seems to collect in his father's eyes when he gazes upon his son, as though there are dark thoughts brewing in the clouds of his mind. As a child, Jon believed his father would hide from him, as though it were a game in which he must always be searching for his father's warmth, his father's love behind every closed door. It is only now, since he has long outgrown the enjoyment of such games, that he understands his father shares no laughter in the evasion of his son. 

And that perhaps instead, it is

_Shame,_

_Regret_ _,_

_Pain,_

                                                     that keeps him far away from his bastard son

* * *

Jon feels as a prince should when he is in the company of the young Lady Sansa. She smiles at him with her soft, red lips and her blue eyes flicker with an admiration he has never known before.

 _He feels worthy, He feels strong, He feels warmth_  

And so he walks with her in the gardens, listening to her stories with absolute attention, and he tucks her long, beautiful red waves behind her ear when it hides her face from his, and he revels in the gentle touch of her hand that rests upon his arm. Because he had never before dreamed he would be blessed with this rushing in veins each time she glances at him, this lightness in his heart each time she crosses his mind, this unadulterated joy that brightens his soul whenever she is around.

He wonders if this tranquil, yet passionate love that has enraptured his heart is the similar phenomenon that had caused his father to pluck the winter rose from the North.                             

 _And he wonders if he would do the same for his Sansa_.

 

Yet he finds he no longer cares for whether his blood is the blood of a dragon or of a wolf, because whichever the mixture that conspires within his veins, it is the blood of _him_. And Sansa does not love the dragon nor the wolf of which he has been made, rather she loves  _him_. And that is more than he could of ever wished for, ever dreamt for. And it is why he loves _her_ all the more. 

And on a day he feels the pain wear heavy on his heart,

                                                                  _the pain of his mother,_

 _the pain of his father_ ,

                                                                                                                           the pain that has left him

_a bastard prince,_

_a dragon wolf,_

She speaks to him, "We are birthed from our parents love, suffering and all. It is our tragedy that we wear their pain as scars. But Jon, we are not their pain. We are our own souls, our own hearts, our own beings. And we must learn how to make our own happiness instead of following in their suffering." 

And suddenly it no longer matters that they call him as great many names as there are stars shining in the sky because to those he holds dear, he is only Jon.

And that is _enough_  

* * *

 He often forgets Lord Stark was his mother's brother and that perhaps, in another life, he would be referring to him as he refers to Viserys, as _uncle_. Such notions are quickly forgotten, however, with the formation of the vast gulf that resides between them despite the closeness Jon has found in Lord Stark's children.

_When in the company of Lord Stark's children, Jon finds openness and laughter._

_When in the company of Lord Stark, Jon finds strained formalities and forced pleasantries_. 

 When Jon meets Lord Stark's gaze he watches as the fog spreads, and wonders if the Warden of the North sees the same ghost as the King of the Seven Kingdoms. For a mother he has never known, Jon is forever marred with her scars. Perhaps they shine in the irises of his eyes, or are dressed upon his back, blind to himself but glaring to others. Wherever they may lay, Lord Stark flinches at the sight of them, and so Jon withdraws from the uncle he may have once had.

There is a moment, however. A  _quick,_

_quiet,_

_soft,_

                                                                               moment in which Jon comes to know an uncle of the man of the North. 

He helps Arya fix her stance, helps her hold her sword tightly and swiftly, helps her swing with the passion of a warrior, and Lord Stark finds them as such. Jon fears a scolding, to lower his head in shame, and swear no more practice of such actions. But Jon hears only laughter and watches as the fog begins to recede. 

"It is good she has finally found herself a teacher," Lord Stark says, "She is determined, willful, much like your mother in that way."

And Jon is stunned to hear her spoken of. She has been a cursed name within the walls of the Red Keep, a simple whisper of the syllable cause the fog to magnify behind the King's eyes and he hides away, only to reappear with dark bruising stained underneath his indigo eyes, a testament to his torturous pain.

But to hear her spoken of now, with such _freeness_ , such _warmth_ , Jon is overcome.

And so he stares in

 _wonder_ ,

                                    _gratitude_ ,

                                                _silence_ , 

                                                            at the brother to his fallen mother and he feels the wolf awaken from its slumbering chambers of his soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow every chapter I write is so angsty and i'm sorry for that. But hey! I'm going to try to update more frequently.


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